I sang more as a kid than I do now. This is a problem. And though I still laugh I do that less enough as well. This is a problem. And the censorious mantle clock with its disdainful ancestry snicks and animal ghosts drift through the room reminding me of loves long gone. Like all the old people I walk out in the twilight and shake my bony fists at god and say I wasn’t counting on this. Of course its a problem. The best way to go is while singing like William Blake. Or tasting a cherry like that other guy I can’t remember. And there was not enough time, not enough time to see the true green in nature. But there is this walking wind.
Planet of the Blind 